


When the Fire Dies Out

by DoxyByProxy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All mistakes are mine, Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Violence, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Derek Hale Saves The Day, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Humans vs. Werewolves, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Multi, Oblivious Stiles, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Other Pack(s), Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Character Death, Past Domestic Violence, Past Torture, Stiles Stilinski Has a Bad Day, Stiles Stilinski is Not Amused, True Mates, Unbeta'd, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10584039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoxyByProxy/pseuds/DoxyByProxy
Summary: Stiles was prepared for the apocalypse - Zombie Survivor Kit and all. But these aren't zombies, not by a long shot, and Stiles is as good as dead.or:Werewolf apocalypse in which not all werewolves are killing machines and Stiles just wants to get home to his dad. Derek manages to both help and hinder Stiles' progress.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles runs until he can’t, legs wilting beneath him as he falls onto the forest floor. He face-plants into what he hopes is mud and mulch. It’s dark and he’s completely alone, but as much as he loves the sound of his own voice, the stars don’t talk back and there’s a solid chance he left his brain behind somewhere between Redding and Hayfork.

Lost his bag, too, but right now Stiles just wants a nap, no matter how awful the idea is. It’s not like bad things happen to people who sleep alone in the woods without any protection, shelter, or adequate spank-bank material to lighten to mood.

Seeing Lydia torn apart by three wolves was enough of a boner killer, thanks. Seeing her intestines stretched out like garland isn’t what he meant when he wished to see more of her.

Oddly, the worst of his situation is that he’s stuck in some kind of personal _Stiles and the No Good, Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad Day_ book, minus the campy resolution and the humor. There is nothing funny about the apocalypse.

Actually, watching Jackson piss himself after being cornered in an abandoned pharmacy by a couple red-eyed Hulks was a little funny. Stiles didn’t stick around long enough to catch how it ended for him, but going by previous experience, Stiles guesses _not very well_.

Not that Stiles is doing much better at this point. His legs are basically useless and he’d kill for a bed or even pillow just for some shut-eye. You’d think all the practice he had running away from his problems before would come in handy right about now, but nope. On the bright side, his time spent on the lacrosse field taught him how to take a hard hit and get back up.

He tries to ignore the hideous, blatant realization that there used to be something worth getting back up for, and lying to himself about some impossible finish line or a light at the end of this perpetually black tunnel isn’t working. At all.

Gathering the coordination and strength necessary to stand up, Stiles forces himself to feet. He manages a few extra steps before tumbling back down, his face landing on a bundle of tangled, exposed roots, and says fuck it. It’s a better pillow than the gross muck and he can’t be bothered to care about potential bugs. What’s a spider gonna do, crawl in his mouth? Protein, that’s what it is. Crunchy, furry, nightmare-inducing protein. His favorite.

If he’s killed in the process, who cares? Most people want to go peacefully in their sleep anyway.

Virgins are usually the last to go in horror films. He’s too tired to laugh at the thought that his pitiful virginity is the last weapon of his defense.

He must have fallen asleep because when he next opens his eyes, everything’s a little fuzzy around the edges and he could have sworn he’d found his way home in one piece. His muscles are sore and he wobbles on his elbows as he tries to reposition his body into a slightly more comfortable shape, but then a large hand settles over his back and pushes him back down, a whispered voice telling him to hush.

Thank the deities for adrenaline; Stiles whips his head around so fast that might have paralyzed himself otherwise. There’s a dark and brooding figure above him, only his profile in view and the guy is shirtless.

Stiles is weirdly okay with dying as long as it’s by this guy. He’s pretty certain the man is human, nothing wolfy about him that Stiles can see. Not even a hardy patch of hair of his chest save the happy trail starting below his navel.

Even his eyes are like some crazy blue color straight out of a purple-prose novel, which means there’s an extremely low chance of him being a psychowolf and his survival probability just shot through the roof. He could use an enormous guy on his team; a team that currently consists of one Adderall-free spazoid and…one outfit. A stained, tattered shirt and jeans with non-ironic holes in them.

“Wha –“

“Shh.”

Well, that hardly seems fair. Unethical at best. Pin a helpless guy down and tell him to _shh_ without any explanation or nearby threat of violence. “Who –“

“Shut up.”

On the bright side, at least he talks. Stiles is pinned anyway, not like he can get up and just leave. Instead, he plays dead a little theatrically with grunting noises and all, and drops his face back onto the ground.

Stiles can _feel_ the glare aimed in his direction, but hey, it’s more human interaction than he’s had in days. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Eons pass before the guy moves his arm and helps Stiles to his feet. Hypervigilance must be the guy’s natural state because he’s still checking out their surroundings, glaring through the thick burgeon of leaves. He puts Stiles behind him, takes a few steps and glances over his bare shoulder at Stiles.

“Name?”

Efficiency must be part of his natural state too,  given the impatient look on his face and the lack of complete sentence structure.

“Stiles,” he says, trying to parrot the mystery man’s preferred method of conversation. “And you are…?”

“Someone who just saved your life.”

“Hello, _Someone who just saved your life_. It’s nice to meet you. Do you come here often?” Okay, maybe Stiles is being a little facetious, but he totally deserves it. He went from being the non-essential side character of everyone else’s main storyline to the last man standing in a matter of days. A fact that is both bewildering and impressive.

“It’s Derek,” he corrects, and kudos to him for being only slightly a dick about it. “If you’d like to stay alive, follow me and keep quiet.”

The first part sounds easy enough; Stiles is a GREAT follower. Probably the best follower ever. He can follow so well that it borders on creepy sometimes. But keeping quiet? He’s been out of Adderall for a while so Derek may as well be asking for the moon.

He trails closely behind Derek without talking for longer than he thought possible. If his watch didn’t break in the initial fallout of screaming and running and utter chaos, Stiles would be timing this shit for his own curiosity. If anyone he cared about was still alive, he’d brag about it for months. Might even buy himself one of those cheap trophies with an athlete on top, engraved with _Stiles – Impressively Quiet! 1 st Place_. He only ruins it because he has to; he can’t let a missed opportunity go unnoticed.

“Hey,” he says, tapping on Derek’s shoulder. Stiles feels like he might spontaneously combust between the ridiculous amount of tension and adrenaline flooding his system. “Dude, you seriously missed out on a golden opportunity back there.”

Derek doesn’t quite stop walking, but he slows enough to shoot another glare at him. One of his eyebrows is lifted in the same way Stiles’ dad used to do, so he KNOWS there’s at least a tiny bit of interest hidden beneath the frown.

“Come with me if you want to live.” Stiles prompts, hoping for a chuckle. Instead, Derek’s frown deepens and he returns his gaze forward. “Come on, from the Terminator movies? How often does someone get a perfect prompt for that? _Come with me if you want to live_ ,” he repeats, using his best Schwarzenegger voice, which isn’t at all that great but drives the point home.

He gets zero response. Rude.

When he thinks about it, he probably should have tried Kyle Reese’s voice – he was technically the first one to say it, but not the one most people associate the quote with. But how do you impersonate a regular sounding guy? Nothing special or rewarding about that. Except –

“Ugh, that makes me Sarah Connor, doesn’t it? Lame. I’d way rather be John, if we have to establish roles here. You’re beefy enough to be T-800, but if you’re more of a Kyle guy I’d definitely –“

“Stiles,” Derek growls, clenching his fists. It’s only a little scary. “Shut. Up.”

“Sorry.” Not sorry at all.

After all, Derek could be leading him right into the jaws of death. What once had been an abundance of food leading the nation into sweet, curvy obesity (honestly, no one thinks of the obvious boobs and ass benefits) is now a bunch of stale and molded waste, so it’s entirely possible Derek plans on eating him later for his delicious human meat. Marbled with a little fat, even. Steaks were expensive before everything went to Hell in a handbasket, and Stiles is covered in prime cuts. He’s probably tender and juicy and please Lord Baby Jesus don’t let him become tonight’s supper.

“Don’t even think about touching my meat,” Stiles blurts.

Derek’s eyes go wide as he blushes, mouth dropping open before he promptly closes it.

They should seriously consider stopping by the nearest pharmacy. Stiles can’t believe he just said that out loud. Yes, even for him. Derek looks like he wishes he’d murdered Stiles half a mile back.

What he’s not expecting to hear, especially with Derek’s blank-yet-evil expression, is “That’s what she said.”

Stiles bursts into laughter. His ribs ache and he feels a migraine coming on, but holy shit, that was funny. He hasn’t laughed in ages, and even then it was mostly laughter at his own jokes because _somebody_ needed to appreciate his wit, but he can’t remember the last time someone actually participated. The last time someone made an effort to put a smile on his face, rather than the other way around. It doesn’t even make sense, but he _tried_.

Derek could still be trying to kill him, but dammit, it’s worth it.

He thinks of his dad – doesn’t want to, but it’s suddenly impossible not to – and remembers their deadpan humor traded across the dining table; the way no one understood their jokes or discussions, how two people can be so fucking hilarious without cracking a smile. He remembers the first time Scott came for a sleepover, and the poor kid actually thought Stiles was fighting with his dad – with the _sheriff_. But no, that’s just how they worked.

After mom’s death, it was much easier to say _get your delinquent ass to bed_ with a loving wink in his eye than a simple _love you kiddo, sleep well_. That kind of thing had always been mom’s job anyway, you know?

And Stiles must be more out of shape than he the thought, because he suddenly can’t breathe and he sees the trees through a kaleidoscope, spinning slowly around the edges.

His father’s voice thunders in the space between his ears, deceptively soft despite those years of empty whiskey bottles and pain: _I should have paid better attention. Time is infinite, but people are not._

Stiles was too young to get it then, but he understood it a little better with each passing year. She still plays in the back of his mind, a film projection of clipped together memories on repeat. What had he missed when he wasn’t looking? Where are the moments between one flashback and the next?

Then Scott’s there too, his last horrific shriek of agony as a wolf bit clean through his leg, letting himself die so that Allison might live.

The way the inside of the school bus looked just like a scene from a horror film, the _smell_ of it, the students getting picked off one by one like berries from a shrub. Allison ran south, never looked back, didn’t turn when Stiles followed her and screamed her name.

“Stiles,” Derek says, shaking his shoulder. “Snap out of it.”

And, oh, he’s still in the goddamn woods.

“I’ve never seen the Terminator movies,” Derek admits, one hand tight on Stiles’ shoulder. “I don’t know what a Kyle Guy is, but I don’t mind being compared to Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

There’s a slow retort stuck somewhere on Stiles’ tongue, but he doesn’t bother. This is a classical case of distraction, of thought-derailment. Derek’s trying to help him out. It works.

He doesn’t even mind that he still has no idea who Derek is or where he’s taking them if he plans on killing Stiles and eating his delicious meat after all. As far as the quality of Stiles’ previous friendships go, Derek is already topping the list. Scott was great, even died for the girl he loved, but did he stop once to consider Stiles’ health status? No last _I love you bro, no I love you more, broseph_. Stiles covered Scott’s back until he couldn’t, tried to help him even when Scott was hell-bent on leaping in front of the bloodthirsty creatures and using his last breath to say Allison’s name.

And just for that, Stiles will use his final moments to say _Sike_ , or something equally stupid. Bros before Respectable Women, apocalypse included.

Also, all of Scott’s promises to haunt him after death have gone unfulfilled. Is it too much to ask for his friend to jump out and scare him in ghost form? No levitating pennies, possessed psychics or _Dittos_?

“You can be John,” Derek adds, still trying to break through the lingering fog of his panic.

“Fine,” Stiles says. He smacks his lips together, but they’re practically sticky from being so dry. “I’m thirsty.”

Derek nods, still clutching at Stiles’ shoulder. “We’re getting closer to my safe-house. There’s water there, some food and a bed.”

Stiles considers that for a moment, wondering if Derek is some kind of genie, granting his three wishes at once. They start walking again, but instead of Stiles following him like he had before, they march side-by-side so Derek can keep a hand on him. It’s not nearly as creepy or unsettling as it should be, even when Derek’s fingers inch upward to rest on the side of his neck.

Stiles starts feeling marginally better, like the hard-fought aches are slowly ebbing away. Even his brain feels less like mush, and he’s able to form a coherent, appropriate question relative to their situation. “Last sign I saw said Hayfork. Where are we headed?”

Derek looks miserably constipated, but he answers. “Just outside of Peanut. That’s where my shelter is, but we probably shouldn’t stay there too long.”

First: the hell kind of name is Peanut? Who are these people coming up with such silly town names, and how can Stiles get a job like that? If a name like Peanut passes, surely Banana would be acceptable. He’s got plenty of perfectly phallic names already tallied on his mental notepad. Even better, he’d name at least one city Lydia – that way he can say things like, _I’m in Lydia right now_ , or _Thanks for visiting Lydia, come again!_

Second: what is the point of a safe-house if you’re not safe there for long, and what’s the difference between a safe-house and a shelter? If it has food, water, and a bed, then it’s probably not some straw hut built by the genius Little Pig architects.

Probably not the best comparison to make, considering insanely lethal wolves are trying to wipe out all of humanity.

“I’m trying to get back to Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, hoping it sounds like a question. He wants to know how long he’ll have his T-800 bodyguard for. “That’s where my dad was when all this started. I need to find him.”

Derek sighs. “We’ll need to head west first, for the shoreline. Safer there than through the woods. Then we’ll go south.”

“You’ll really take me there?”

Derek nods, but the scowl is back. Maybe he just suffers from Resting Bitch Face. “That’s where I’m headed, too. My…house is there.”

Something about the way Derek forces the words out tells Stiles it’s the end of that subject unless he wants a limb removed, so he doesn’t ask.

It’s not that bad, though. Derek’s touch is comforting and keeps him settled, and he breaks his own personal silence record again on the same day. They pass the little green sign marked Peanut, no population labeled or even a village motto. There’s probably not even a post office here.

They pause occasionally when Derek claims to hear something, or when Stiles needs to take a leak. A weathered path leads them through a cluster of abandoned trailers and Stiles nearly vomits when he sees the number of eviscerated pets trapped behind chain-link fences. They’re all dead in the same way; split in half, disemboweled, nothing left but the ragged edge of teeth and claw marks made visible from all the blood.

Stiles dry heaves and thinks that yeah, he’s gonna die here. If this is a place where Derek thinks they will be safe, he probably lost his brain somewhere in the initial scramble of fight or flight too.

Jerking away, Stiles puts a little more space between him and his savior-slash-captor. Derek eyes him warily, reaches out when he sees the twist in Stiles’ hips, heels digging into the dirt.

“Don’t do it,” Derek warns, and it’s only then that Stiles notices his eyes aren’t blue like he originally thought. Had he been seeing things? Going crazy? They’re some kind of grey-green that he doesn’t know the proper name for, pleading and almost angry.

Stiles didn’t miraculously survive the school field-trip ambush just to be lured into an oven by a cannibalistic creep.

That is…until Derek’s eyes don’t flash blue. They flash red. “Stiles, don’t.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh _fuck._  

“Red eyes,” he stammers, because he can’t turn it off. Silence Trophies officially revoked. Not even a participation ribbon, not when he’s babbling like an idiot as he takes another step back, hands shaking. “You’re one of them. You’re a wolf monster.”

Derek shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “My eyes aren’t red, and I’m not a monster. I’m a werewolf, Stiles, but I’m trying to help you.”

“Your eyes are fucking _red_ , dude! Not cool!”

Stiles’ heart is hammering in his chest; this is how it ends for him, and he didn’t even get to squeeze out a clever last line. He’ll inevitably think of something better while he’s running, but by then it’ll be too late.

He does the opposite of what he’s told and runs. It’s pathetic. He’s run for so long that his legs barely move faster than the steady pace they set when walking. He hears a low rumbling growl and the quick succession of footsteps far faster than his own, which is even worse because he thinks Derek gave him a ten-second head start.

His tunnel vision narrows, and just as he passes a fly-covered cat impaled on a tree limb, Derek yanks him back by the hood of his sweater, howls, and mercifully everything goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

“You drugged me.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose,  releasing another heavy, obvious sigh. “For the love of – no, Stiles. I didn’t drug you, hit you, or do anything to you other than carry you back here.”

Stiles glances around the room, unimpressed. “Some kind of wolf magic then.”

“You ran about twenty feet and then collapsed. I think the term you are looking for is _fainted_.”

No. Stiles is about 87% sure that Derek had something to do with his fall. He might not be the greatest athlete, but he was pumped full of adrenaline and he’s heard of people lifting cars off their own children when the occasion arises. Just because he didn’t have any babies to save doesn’t mean he would have dropped to the ground like a Gumby-shaped brick.

“Would you believe me if I told you my father is Liam Neeson?”

Derek blinks at him, flustered.

“If you’re looking for ransom, he can tell you he doesn’t have any money, but what he _does_ have is a very particular set of skills –”

“Stiles, no.”

“Skills he has acquired over a very long career –”

Derek clenches his fist, shakes his head. “Your father is a sheriff.”

Stiles doesn’t pause long enough to wonder how Derek would know that. He continues, undeterred. “Skills that make him a nightmare for people like you. If you let me go now, that’ll be the end of it. He will not look for you, he will not pursue you, but if you don’t, he _will_ look for you, he _will_ find you, and  he _will_ kill you.”

Derek’s eyes flash red and suddenly his nails make this super awful sound against the grain of the wooden table, claw marks digging into it as he growls. Stiles’ eyes go wide, fearful at first, but then ultimately sickened by how gross that is. What the hell just grew out of his fingertips?

That is _so_ Derek’s side of the table, like forever. Wolverine had some sweet blades, but Derek just looks like he forgot to trim and wash his nails for five years and Stiles throws up in his mouth, just a little bit.

“YOU are the nightmare, Stiles. And no, your father does not have the skills to kill me. He doesn’t even know what I am.”

“Uh, gross?” Because that’s what Derek’s hands are: gross. The wolves he’s seen had paws at least, and you know, dog-like nails or whatever. Derek looks like he’s in the first stages of becoming a meth-addicted fairy-tale witch. Nasty.

Derek leans back in his chair, defeated. The claw-nails retreat and his eyes are back to…human? Stiles needs to find a dictionary because there’s gotta be a word for the color of his eyes. Chartreuse? No, that’s yellowish. Or a type of alcohol. Sea Foam?

“Stiles, have you thought about why I’m willing to take you to Beacon Hills?”

He shrugs. Survival mode doesn’t leave much room for in-depth character analysis. Not even in video games, if they exist anymore. Besides, he can’t stop thinking about how much he does not want those icky finger-trowels tearing through his flesh. It would suck to die in the first place, but it would be less offensive if someone ate him with a little dignity. He saw how most of the others went, ripped apart and dug into face-first like an organ bobbing contest.

Seriously, those claws? Derek could chew him up and then snort some coke off his pinky nail.

“Stiles.”

“Huh?”

“Beacon Hills. Are you listening?”

Yeah, he’s listening. And staring at the striped end of the table where Derek’s sitting. Concentrating is something he’s good at when armed with Adderall and a mission, but how’s he supposed to focus on the words coming out of Derek’s mouth when his eyes keep flashing red and his fingernails sprout and retract like a low budget X-Men anti-hero?

“I thought you wanted to help me, but now I think you’re seriously just after my sweet meaty morsels. Do you have any cocaine?”

Derek stares at him for a very, very long time. It makes Stiles’ skin crawl, so he takes the opportunity to look around the safe-house, and just how boring and average it is. Nothing like in the movies. Even the bed has a frame and there’s a dainty kitchenette in the corner. The wood burning stove is pretty cool but seems a little out of place in California.

“Please stop referring to yourself and your parts as sweet, meaty, or morsels. I’m not even going to ask about the cocaine comment.” Derek rises and – oh, he has a shirt on now, which he’s tugging at because it’s hotter than eternal brimstone in here. Stiles goes to remove his sweater and realizes it’s gone.

“Did you have your wolfy way with me after you drugged me? Why is my sweater gone?”

Derek leans against the nearest wall and thumps his head against it. Twice. Three times. His sigh isn’t audible this time, but Stiles can tell Derek is taking a deep breath by the way his shoulders slowly rise and fall.

“I know who you are, Stiles. I’m a deputy in Beacon Hills. I’ve only heard vague stories about you from your father, and he clearly hasn’t done you justice. You are much, _much_ more annoying and unbearable in person.”

Stiles keeps glancing around the open room, looking for his sweater. It’s his lucky sweater and the reason he’s still alive, probably. Lydia had actually responded to him one time while he was wearing it and another time he bowled a strike. Narrowly surviving the School Bus Blood Bath is a plus.

“Then why did you ask what my name was when you found me?”

“I needed to know if you suffered from any head trauma,” Derek says, wiping beads of sweat away with the collar of his shirt. “Clearly, you do.”

“I guess you could call it that if you want to be douche. Most people call it ADHD.”

Derek paces around the room and peeks out the window. “Your attention span does seem to be lacking.”

“Uh, _no_. Lacking is pretty much the opposite of what I have. Hyperactivity is part of its definition.”

Derek smirks. “Pretty sure the word _Deficit_ is part of its definition too.”

Stiles glares because he can. Glares hard enough that Derek can feel it without looking at him. “Fuck you, pal. You’re the one who dragged me here, okay? I didn’t force you to follow _me_ , and my Adderall is long gone with my backpack. I don’t care if you escort me back home or not, that’s your deal, not mine. If you can score me some amphetamine from a hospital or wherever, this trip will be exponentially better for the both of us.”

For a moment, Stiles thinks Derek might punch him, might add more bruising and discoloration to his face, but instead he settles back into the seat at the opposite end of the table. He traces a thumb over the grooves left by his red-eyed wolf persona. “Is that why you asked me for cocaine? I can’t imagine a stimulant would improve your condition. Even if I had some, you’re the last person I’d give it to.”

Stiles leans so far back in his chair he nearly tips over, grasping the ledge for balance. “Have you ever seen your nails? You’re like Val Kilmer in The Salton Sea. And fuck you twice, because amphetamines like Adderall actually increase concentration for people with my disorder, and lasts way longer than cocaine anyway. And if you did have cocaine, I’d only ask you to use on me topically like they did back in the old days for certain types of surgery, just in case you were still thinking about digesting me.”

“How do you know so much about cocaine?”

“I’m sixteen with access to the Internet, and we’ve already established that I have ADHD. The internet is a beautiful and terrifying place for someone like me.”

Derek nods. At least they finally agree about something.

“There’s enough food and water here for a couple days. There was a pharmacy in Hayfork, but the next one on our path isn’t until Fortuna. If I go alone, I can get to Hayfork and back in a few hours. If we keep going and wait for Fortuna, it’ll probably take us a couple days. In your condition, could be up to three days. Unfortunately for us, slow and steady doesn’t win the race.”

Stiles pouts. “So now I’m a turtle.”

“More like a turtle without working legs and a broken shell. Though technically the Hare ran so fast he fell asleep and lost. Point is, your self-identification as a fable creature doesn’t matter. You’re slow and I can get your medication more quickly if I go alone.”

Stiles stares at him and doesn’t look away. Derek stares back. He’s pretty sure there’s some kind of communication happening here, but unless Derek is blinking in Morse code, it’s way over Stiles’ head. Actually, Morse code is way over Stiles’ head too, and he’d probably have a better chance trying to read Hieroglyphics.

The longer they stare, the more grouchy Derek gets. He’s probably waiting for an answer, for Stiles to offer some input, but the color of Derek’s eyes are really starting to bother Stiles in a way he can’t simply shake off. They’re not blue or red – not wolfish, he means – but he knows he’s seen that type of hue before somewhere. A swirl of gray and green, pale, soft…

“Marbles,” Stiles says, proud of himself.

A myriad of emotions cross Derek’s face; he’s confused, then angry, and finally a mixture of annoyed and defeated. “Hayfork it is.”

Derek grabs a bottle of water and heads for the door, quickly enough to be insulting, so Stiles attempts an explanation. “Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Yeah, they’re like marbles.” Stiles feels so proud of himself, but his pride is flattened when Derek shakes his head, his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth.

“Because they’re round?” He says, undoubtedly meant to be sarcasm, but he needs to work on his inflection. If Derek wants to be that obtuse about it, then fine, marbles are round, but that’s not what he’s getting at here.

“No, jackass. I’m assuming you’ve seen marbles before unless werewolf kids were sequestered away from normal childhoods. You’re eyes, dude – they look like those clear marbles with the swirls of color in them. It’s been bugging me this whole time because they’re not a regular color even when you’re human. It’s like someone forged your eyes out of heat and glass with blue, green, and gray stripes. They’re too pale to be hazel, and I bet if you had a driver’s license you’d have to pick green to be put on the ID, but you know I’m right. Marbles.”

Expecting a clear victory, Stiles folds his arms in triumph with a smile and waits. His success rate so far hasn’t been that impressive, and hopefully Derek is in a generous enough mood to concede.

Instead, Derek’s features soften; his jaw relaxes just enough for his lips to part, and he looks so genuinely stunned that Stiles worries he might have broken him.

They stare again, silence sitting between them like an old friend, but the way Derek’s eyes are trained on him feels different. It’s like he’s looking _through_ Stiles rather than _at_ him, searching for something, and Stiles’ definitely didn’t mean for this weird, quiet staring contest to become a regular thing. Even Derek’s shoulders start to relax before he straightens back up, giving the water bottle a quick shake as he turns away.

Derek opens the door but leaves Stiles with a few parting words. “Don’t leave this house. I don’t care how bored you get without shiny objects to keep you occupied; I expect you to be right here when I get back and preferably without you burning down the place. Your sweater is hanging up in the closet.”

Stiles blinks. “Uh, okay.”

“And Stiles? I’m _never_ human.”

The door doesn’t slam when Derek leaves, but it does click shut with a hint of passive-aggression.

And then Stiles is alone in a weird little house and Derek is frustratingly accurate about there being absolutely nothing to pass the time with.

There should be some standard rules about safe-houses, like a supply of alcohol or board games, maybe even a deck of cards. Mental health is a vital part of general well-being and safety, and if Stiles is supposed to be safe here, surely someone would have thought to stock the place with literally anything stimulating for the brain.

But no. Stiles has bare walls, a bathroom, a bed, and cabinets with MREs and canned goods.

Naturally, the best thing he can do is Inception-ize this house by making a smaller safe-house within it, which is far more mature and adult-like than demeaning his idea by calling it a pillow fort.

Starting with the chairs – and carefully avoiding Derek’s side of the table, because _no_ – he debates for a solid ten minutes whether or not he wants the seats facing inward or out. On one hand, he could use the seats as shelving for his non-existent television and laptop, or he could have more room inside for…well, whatever it is people do with more space on the floor.

He opts for more space, steals the old couch cushions for soft-padded walls, and drapes the hideous quilt atop his fine and fancy stronghold.

If Stiles had any way to measure time other than the position of the sun – hey, there’s an idea, building a sundial out of soup cans – he would have known his fine and fancy stronghold took approximately twenty minutes to build, passing nearly no time at all. The sun doesn’t even look like it’s moved a millimeter.

He stares up at the underside of the quilt, counting the stitches. Solitary confinement is the absolute worst.

In search of something more comfortable and familiar, Stiles hunts down this mysterious unseen closet that supposedly holds his sweater captive. His initial observations took in the important stuff, but no nook or cranny resembling storage space. There is, however, a total of three doorknobs in the entire house. The first one has been banned from his use, and the second leads to the bathroom. There’s a third doorknob by the bed and Stiles’ Spidey-senses are tingling.

He swings it open, and yeah, it’s there.

It’s also red. Red with extra splatters of deeper reds. Red with arterial sprays of more red settled across the entire back of his sweater like he’d walked through a misty blood rain.

So much red. Too much.

He stands at the closet, one hand gripping the knob as the other clutches at his chest.

Fuck. The longer he stares, the faster his synapses are firing. He remembers the smear of some kid’s hand as he held onto Stiles’ arm, not yet realizing that both his legs were gone. He finds a constellation in the mess of dots that decorate the zipper line, the splotch of brown so dark that it’s almost black near the hem when he’d had only mere seconds to comfort the top half of Lydia’s body.

The thick line of blood across the chest, so heavy that trails of fat lines soaked downward when he failed at saving his best friend from self-sacrifice for a girl who couldn’t be bothered to spare a backward glance.

Stiles shuts the closet but can’t shut out the memories, can’t slow down the onslaught of screams and howls and death.

He cups his hands over his ears but it does nothing to silence the brutal cacophony growing louder in his head, does nothing to stop the flutter of images or the pounding of his heart, a thudding hammer against soft cloth.

Stiles scrambles into his pillow fort, buries his face in the pillow and cries.


End file.
